The Night the Guns Went Silent
by FrivolousFlare
Summary: A oneshot, loosely based off of true life event of the Christmas Truce, 1914. It's meant to be sad, don't sue me if you cry! But, that also means, don't sue me if you don't cry! Okay, R&R please!


**HAPPY CHRISTMAS GUYS!! Well…Christmas Eve Eve…**

**Guess what!! I'm going up North tomorrow!! To the land where the bong tree grows…Okay, I'm not really.**

**I'm going to visit my Aunt and Uncle and play murder mystery games even though technically I'm too young and watch my granny make a fool of herself by doing karaoke and get licked to death by dogs and take random and useless photos and eat cake. *Faints from lack of air***

**Anyway…as it's Christmas I decided to write a oneshot to celebrate! Now, I'm sure you're all expecting a nice, heart-warming story full of fluff and random humour. Well, YOU'RE WRONG!! **

**This story is about war. It's about how war isn't good. It doesn't solve problems; it makes them worse. It doesn't prove points; it shows people's dark sides. It doesn't bond countries together, it tears them apart. It destroys friendships, demolishes relationships and spits in the face of our creed.**

**(You didn't need to read that random little rant…I was just making a point…)**

**Anyway, enjoy!!**** (Well…as much as you **_**can**_** anyway…)**

**I don't own Teen Titans. This is just me showing how war is stupid and pointless.**

**Oh, football is mentioned in this…I mean English football!!! (Soccer in America)(Did I spell that right?)(No, don't worry, I spelt that right…)**

**--**

It was a miserable Christmas Eve. The supposed dark sky was alight with the flashes of bombs and explosions of guns. Shells ripped the terrain apart, sending mud and dirt in all directions. Young men, no older than twenty, ran for cover as bullets rained down on them. Some brave souls were facing the attackers, heavy artillery in hand, facing death in the eye, the equivalent of a blind man dancing by the mouth of a canon.

Among these was Richard Grayson.

Richard was a fairly well toned boy of about 17 years. He had black hair and cold blue eyes. His mouth was a straight line. His face: serious and battle-hardened. Next to him, hand grenades went off in a brilliant flash of red and orange. The crushed, strangled grass caught alight. Crimson flames licked at the feet of the brave soldiers, attacking their cold, wet ankles. Richard saw the danger.

"GO BACK!" he called out to the troops still fighting. "GO BACK!" They obeyed, turning and started running towards their trenches. Richard sent two last shots towards the opposite teams before sprinting back to their base, keeping his head down and back low. He dived down into the ditch they were staying in, narrowly avoiding a low shot bullet that had been speeding towards his neck.

"What do you think you were doing, Grayson?" A thunderous voice boomed from his left. Richard turned sharply, coming face to face with a broad shouldered man in his early thirties. He had short cropped, fair hair and bitter grey eyes. "I give the orders around here." He stared at the considerably younger boy. Richard stared up at him, the top of his head only reaching the man's square jaw, determined to not be intimidated.

"Sergeant, if I hadn't told them to get out of there they would've been killed," he argued back, looking him directly in the eye. The sergeant didn't react straight away, but instead took a few seconds to consider what Richard had said.

"Soldier, I know why you did, but you've got to learn your place. I give the orders, you follow them. Next time something like this happens you will not be let off so easily." He marched away to check how many soldiers were still alive. Richard stared coldly after him but then dropped his gaze to the ground.

_~Another part of the fields~_

Garfield Logan, small in size, fairly well muscled. Sandy blonde hair and youthful green eyes.

Sixteen years old.

And lucky to be alive.

He had joined the army at fifteen, two years underage. On his first day of training, he had gotten injured due to an accident involving several rifles being used by amateur soldiers. He had, at the time, been rushing to the training grounds as he had woken up a bit late and, while going past the shooting range, almost been shot five times. The bullets had been fired as he was passing, all heading in his direction. The first five had missed, but only just. However, an unexpected sixth shot had hit him in the chest. As if by a miracle, the bullet had pinged off of a rib, and he had lived.

Now he was more experienced, battle-hardened and aware of the outside world.

Before he had joined the army, he had always thought of himself as a bit of a comedian, though his friends never agreed.

_His friends_, Garfield would always sigh sadly when he thought of his friends. There had been five of them originally, including Gar. They had thought the war was a joke, a laugh. They couldn't have been so wrong. One day they joined for fun, for fame, for recognition. Their theory was proved wrong on the first day of fighting.

Their camp had been assailed by one of the other sides. Gar's friends had been brutally killed. He had watched the whole thing.

Now, he took war more seriously. He trained harder than before, always practising his attacks and moves when he had the chance. His bitter mind set on nothing but vengeance.

A loud explosion echoed through the smoke filled air, snapping Gar out of his thoughts. He cursed himself for letting his mind wonder; a lowered guard, given for even just five seconds, was all the enemy needed.

His hands felt dirty against the warm, smooth gun, burning with the blood of the lives he had taken. The enemy began to retreat. Some of his allies lowered their rifles, still weary in case the opposition were to turn and massacre them.

Suddenly, he noticed two vague shots hurtling towards him. He dodged the first, but the second pierced his shoulder. Hot, coppery blood soaked his uniform, seeping through the cloth and spreading through the muddy green patterns.

He winced and grunted in pain, but didn't cry out. Instead, in turn, he shot another couple of bullets back when he heard the order to return to their trenches. At once he started to wrap whatever cloth he could find around his wounded shoulder, biting his lip as a stinging sensation coursed through his veins. Upon finishing his bandaging, he curled up into a small ball, quickly grabbing a nearby blanket, and attempted to get to sleep.

_~Another section of the battlefield~_

Victor Stone, a large, muscular man, of about 20 years of age, sat by the muddy wall of his trench, listening to the ferocious battle going on above. He closed his eyes, trying to find a peaceful place in his mind. Of course he didn't find it. He never did. The rage of war seemed to act as some sort of barrier to finding this land in his mind. Glancing down at his dark-skinned hands, his eyes darkened. Scorch marks littered his arms. He raised a hand to feel the burns on his face. Battle wounds of his motivation to join the army.

He had been seventeen when it happened. He hadn't wanted to join as his girlfriend was pregnant. Refusing to leave her, he stayed at home, supporting her. However, on a dark, cloudless evening, one of the enemies had decided to bomb his city. His house had been hit. Luckily, it had only been an incendiary bomb so his house didn't blow up. Unfortunately, the place he called home had fallen victim to a forest of raging flames and angry reds. He had tried to save her, but by the time he had gotten her out of the house, it was too late. She and the child were dead.

At that moment, he vowed that he would seek revenge, face to face.

Gently wiping away a lone tear, Victor closed his eyes and slowly shook his head trying to relieve himself of these memories. That had been years ago. Three years of nonstop fighting, killing, mercilessly hacking away at innocent men's' lives, and he was sick of it. He had gone in a vengeful man, but was soon reduced to one who wanted nothing but to go home, and finally wash away the blood of dead. The ones whom were dead by his hands.

Sighing sadly, he picked up a nearby blanket and wrapped it around himself, falling into the numbing depressant of slumber.

_~Around 5:00 the next morning~_

Boom

Boom

Boom

Crashing drums sounded from Gar's camp, echoing through the groggy morning air. A tall, burly young lad held a drum at waist height, a thick, leather strap supporting it hung on his shoulder. The general looked watched over the boy who was positively shaking with fear. His face was pale and gaunt; his eyes were shrunken in slightly. His position was dangerous. Either the oppositions would accept or decline the offer. He didn't want to even think about what would happen if they declined. And still the heavy beat rang through at a steady pace.

_~Richard's camp~_

Richard was woken by the sound of a drum beat, pulsing steadily. But this wasn't any old drum; this was the drum of peace he was hearing. One of the opposite sides wanted a peace treaty. He ran over to the sergeant to alert him of this. The older man looked up slightly, listening to the drums before turning back to Richard.

"Go and get the drum."

The darker haired boy nodded and ran to get the said item from its storing place.

Boom

Boom

**Boom**

**Boom**

Victor lifted his head sharply at the sound of the first drum. For a while, he listened to it, getting lost in mental fantasies of a day without fighting and acting like civil human beings. A second drum soon joined the first, and he crossed his fingers, hoping a third would join, signalling his side would agree to the peace treaty as well.

**Boom**

**Boom**

**Boom**

For a while, the earth seemed to have stopped for many of the young men on the battlefield, waiting for the next drum to join in, or not. Slowly, a ginger man took up the drum and, taking a deep breath, brought a wooden stick down.

_**Boom**_

_**Boom**_

_**Boom**_

Three men stood and marched, head held high, out of their respective trenches. They met in the middle and sharply lifted their hands to their foreheads in a salute. The tallest of them spoke first. The other two listened carefully, faces neutral. When he had finished talking, the blonde Sergeant from Richard's camp asked something. The third, Victor's General, answered something in a slightly arguing tone. The Sergeant looked as though he was about to answer back but instead only nodded in response.

The three figures silently strode back to their camps. The Sergeant told the other higher ranking soldiers something quietly. They turned to each other and allowed themselves a small smile, which turned into a grin, which turned into merry, almost hopeful laughter. The other boys crowded around, interested to know why they were so, happy and, as it seemed, carefree.

_~Gar's camp~_

Similar things were happening at Gar's camp.

"What's going on?" the sandy blonde boy asked one of the older soldiers, cocking his head to the side. The man he had asked turned to him, eyes alight with joy.

"It's a miracle!" he answered cheerfully, "We won't be at war this Christmas day!" Gar's eyes widened his first true smile in months slowly spread across his weather-beaten face.

"Dude…you-you really mean it?" he breathed out disbelievingly.

"Oh yeah! It's brilliant, isn't it!?" the soldier cheered before running off to tell other soldiers.

_~At Victor's camp~_

"You've got to be kidding me!" Victor exclaimed, staring at the older soldier like he was crazy.

"I'm not! We're going to have a war-free Christmas for once! Our prayers have been answered!"

Warm, joyous tears welled in Victors eyes. He too threw out laughs of pure relief between disbelieving gasps of air. "Y-you, can't be serious!" he looked up at him with wide eyes, trying his hardest not to scream in joy to the heavens above.

"Never been so serious in my life!" He patted Victor's shoulder before moving on to tell more young men of the seemingly God given miracle. Victor looked up to the heavens above, as if in prayed, silently giving his thanks to whatever Lord or God was watching over them, if indeed there was one.

At around seven o'clock, the three armies climbed out of their trenches and sat on the snow covered fields in one huge circle, finally united like the human beings there were. The generals, Sergeants and Lieutenants stood talking in the centre while their men talked among themselves, mixing with, who were up until now, their enemies.

"Hey, I'm Garfield Logan!" Gar held his had out to a very tall and very big person, though he was more muscle than fat, and grinned up at him. The larger man, Victor, smiled back and shook his hand.

"Nice to meet ya, Gar! I'm Victor Stone."

Garfield turned to the man on his right and asked, "Who are you?"

"Richard Grayson."

"This is gonna be so fun!" the younger boy exclaimed, "Isn't it, Dick?"

"It'll be different, that's for sure," Richard replied to Gar's outburst.

"Aw…c'mon dude! It's gonna be great!"

"Yeah, I mean, a Christmas without fighting each other!" Vic added. Richard just sighed, but said nothing.

"Dude, you okay?" Gar asked, concerned for his new acquaintance.

"I'm fine, I just, can't believe this!"

"None of us can. Dude, you should've seen our camp when we found out! I mean, everyone was crying and hugging and…" Gar eventually trailed off, almost sadly.

"It was pretty much the same with us too…"

"Yeah, it was great but…"

"But…?" Richard prompted.

"I just wish my friends were still here to share it."

Richard stayed silent; picking up that this was a soft spot for Gar.

"BOOYAH!"

"Ah!" Both Richard and Garfield leapt up violently from their seats when Victor randomly exclaimed 'Booyah' right in their ears.

Victor laughed nervously at their reactions. "Heheh…sorry about that y'all…but didn't ya hear?"

"Hear what?" Gar questioned, looking at him curiously.

"We get the whole day, from now till' midnight, to do whatever we want.

"Really?" Richard asked.

"Yup!"

"Sounds great!" Gar exclaimed. "I've got some footballs we can play with!"

"Really? It's been ages since I've played with a football…"

"I can go get them!" Garfield pushed himself off the ground and ran back to his camp. Richard watched him leave, a small smile tugging at his lips. He glanced over at Vic who was scooping up some snow. "Uh…what are you doing?"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing? I'm making a snowball!" Vic answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the white powder down into a sphere, straightened up and waited for his prey. Richard shrugged, grinned, and scooped up some snow himself.

Gar marched back through the snow, football in hand, to where Vic and Richard were. They were giving him mischievous looks and had their hands behind their backs. "Uh…guys, what are you do-WA!"

He shouted out when half a dozen icy balls of fury came hurtling towards him and exploded into clouds of white powder on his chest and head. "Ah! I'm being attacked!" he exclaimed, laughing at the same time, and scraped some snow off the ground. Richard and Vic had used up their snowballs and now were laughing their heads off at the snow covered Gar, but failed to see him stock up on ammo until it was too late. They found themselves being mercilessly pelted by pellets of ice. "Heheh, take that dudes! And that, and some of this!"

"Aww…c'mon, knock it off," Vic said as he pushed himself off the ground, brushing snow from his uniform. Richard did the same, also brushing it from his hair. However, yet another tightly packed snowball came flying at him and landed right in his face. He growled at Vic and Gar's grinning faces and reached for the ground. The war was on.

An hour later, the three boys were found lying on the snow, bright red and uniforms soaked. They took a ten minute breather, although none needed it, before getting up again, dusting the snow from his combat trousers.

"So, anyone up for some footy?" Gar asked, grinning and holding up the football that had been abandoned during their snowball fight.

"You bet!" Vic and Richard leapt up to Gar as he placed the ball on the ground. "Okay, I guess we'll just have a little kick around with it," Gar said.

"Works for me!" and Vic was off, kicking the football around the field. Gar and Richard looked at each other before following him, calling his name and trying to steal the ball.

For three, peaceful hours, the three new friends played. They kicked, passed, shouted out, dribbled, and really just had fun. At the end of this time, the high ranking officers from each camp called out to the troops to stop their activities and sit in a large group in front of them. The soldiers did this, chatting merrily to each other, but quietened down with the help of a few hand gestures from a general. One of the men, a sergeant, stepped forward in front of the large crowds and began to lead a funeral for the dead.

The soldiers in the crowd all bowed their heads as a sign of respect to their deceased allies and enemies. Some started to weep while others just stared at the ground.

Every soldier remembered something different. For Gar, images of his friends filled his mind, the old thoughts they had had; their ideas, their hopes and dreams. He gave a half smile and bowed his head, finding comfort in the thought that he'd never forget them.

Vic remembered his girlfriend, his sweet princess and his tiny child. He recalled the playful fight's they had over its gender, its name, its room. For once he was able to happily remember his family without the flames and fires that had taken them from him and to heaven.

Richard remembered no one; he had no one to remember. His own parents had died when he was seven. He didn't remember them. He made no effort to make friends with his fellow soldiers; it would make it painful when they died. His adoptive father, Bruce, was fine as much as he knew, with a top of the art bomb shelter. Besides, he had never been that close to Bruce. Their views on how to run Bruce enterprises were completely different. However, he, too, lowered his head out of respect for those who had lost people close to them.

The group of soldier stayed silent for a few minutes after the funeral ended, each saying their own private words for their loved ones in their minds and hearts.

Soon, the men started to depart for bed and the next morning.

"See ya…tomorrow…" Gar said awkwardly, knowing full well that they'd go right back to fighting and killing. Richard nodded, now knowing what to say.

"Yeah…nice knowing ya…" Vic shook hands with both men. "It's been fun…"

All three looked at each other. No words needed to be said. Richard turned and walked back to his camp, not straying any last glances over his shoulder. His actions where soon followed by Vic, leaving the youngest of the trio staring out into nothing.

_~The next morning~_

Swarms of soldiers scurried into the nightmare, heads down and guns ready. Ear-splitting explosions sounded from the artillery shells, tearing apart the fields. Scarlet soaked the remaining snow while hundreds of machine guns poured out a red snowstorm of bullets.

Many of the soldiers where immediately hit in the first minute of the battle, many more the next minute. Among these, Gar.

A small, rounded projectile buried itself in this back of his knee, sending him to the ground. Suppressing a cry of pain, he looked around in desperation for someone to help him get to cover, no one came. They were too busy saving their own backs to worry about the small, minor soldier.

Everyone but Richard.

'_Take no prisoners,'_ was all he had been taught his whole life, _'Leave no survivors,'_ These lessons were reeling through his mind as she gazed down at Gar. He didn't know what to feel.

Where was the adrenaline, the usual boost that coursed through his veins and readied his muscles? Where was the pity? The human touch of empathy for the man who would surely die. Where was the sick feeling, the guilt of ending a man's life? Where was all emotion he was meant to be feeling?

And, for just a second, as green eyes caught blue, there was something; a feeling, a bond which cut through the smoky air. It sliced through their hearts and carried on, down through their bodies. And, for just a second, there was something in Garfield Logan's eyes. Something bright, something beautiful. The youthful light of unlived life shone through the young man's eyes.

And the light of a life that would never be lived, as Richard closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

_

**I'M SORRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Look, I know I'm gonna get loads of reviews saying 'u killed him! omg i hate u now. ur so evil!' in horrible grammar that shall force me to throw myself off a cliff…****the good news is I won't have to read it for a week!! Well…unless you review in the four hours after this was uploaded…**

**Okay, yes, I killed Beast Boy (Gar), yes, I killed other people and yes, I killed an unborn child. Okay, I did it! Sue me.**

**Now, I know that there are Beast Boy fans out there…so here is my explanation: **

**I couldn't kill Cyborg because…**

**1) There wouldn't be enough sympathy for him**

**2) I couldn't picture him the one dying **

**3) I've already killed him…**

**I couldn't kill Robin because **

**1) Again, not enough sympathy for him **

**2) Again, I couldn't picture him dying **

**3) I wanted him to be the one to kill someone**

**And I didn't have any reasons for not killing Beast Boy so…sorry BB!!**

**Now, I was a little worried about uploading this because…well…I didn't think it was any good and really just a load of waffle…**

**So…if you agree that this is stupid, drop me a review and tell me! But please, include something that may help me improve my writing! If you disagree and think then this is the best darn thing ever, again, review! I don't mind as long as it's not a flame…constructive criticism-good!! Flames-bad!!**

**Kay? Kay, good. Well, there's only one thing to say!!**

**MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT!! **

**Oh, and review please!!**


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